


The King's Consort

by crookedassembly



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery, Slow Burn, Violence, author's complete self-indulgence, kingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2018-04-02 13:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4062100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedassembly/pseuds/crookedassembly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General William Falkirk is made an offer: surrender to the mercies of the usurper king and his country’s people will be spared.  Expecting death, William agrees.  Death, however, is the one thing King Alexander does not intend to grant him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually think of this place for posting original fic but I am easily persuaded. :)
> 
> Please be kind. I find posting this stuff hard in comparison to fanfic.

The grey fingers of dawn were already creeping across the sky when a knock sounded heavily on my bedchamber’s door.I was already awake, staring up at the dark canopy of the bed above, exhaustion keeping the worst of my troubled thoughts at bay.The sharp ache in my shoulder plagued me but there was nothing to be done: I could not risk numbing my mind with the easy oblivion of alcohol in times as these.I thought - not for the first time - that I was getting too old for this life.

“Come,” I called out, sitting up with a grimace.

“General Falkirk,” a boy said, panting as he bowed low, dirty bandages wrapped thickly around his head.“The enemy has pulled back from our walls and there is a Saltarian messenger at the gates.He demands an audience with you, says he won’t speak to anyone else - he asked for you by name, General, sir.My lord leaves the decision in your hands.”

I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my palm.My head hurt, the blood at my temples pounding in rhythm with the pained throb of my shoulder.After nine months of siege, I had not foreseen this move. 

“Very well,” I said.“Thank Lord Drachmead and tell Captain Monmouthshire to have the messenger checked for weapons.I will hear what this Saltarian has to say in the smaller state room.”

The boy nodded and left.

I got up and crossed to the small basin of water on the side of the room.Splashing my face with the stagnant dregs, I allowed myself a moment to dwell on the boy’s words. _He asked for you by name._  

No one had known the whereabouts of the dead king’s swordmaster since the night that the House of Killavray had fallen just over a year ago.If they had, I would already be dead - I knew that with absolute certainty.The invaders may have killed my king, but I had killed theirs in return. 

Scraping my dark hair out of my eyes and tying it back at the nape of my neck, I busied myself with dressing, ignoring the protests of pain from my shoulder.I had never enjoyed the finery of my previous station, but I found little comfort in pulling on plainer clothes that were stiff with dirt, sweat and blood.With water strictly rationed, clothes could not be cleaned; it was just one of the many constant miseries of living life under siege. 

Dressed, I considered the matter for only a moment, then buckled my sword around my waist.While the weapon was unnecessary, the solid weight was as familiar as a lover’s hand.I cared little whether the breach of negotiation protocol antagonised the Saltarian.Words of clemency and deal-making were for the castle’s lord, alone: I was a king-killer, an outlaw in my own country, and I expected neither.

Without further hesitation, I left the bedchamber and, with measured, unhurried strides, headed for the state rooms.

 

 

 

Flanked by armed guards, the messenger did not look like a war-hardened man.Large but favouring flabby bulk to muscle mass, his skin was soft and pale, and he wore dark-rimmed spectacles.While he may have looked better suited to life in a library, the man seemed remarkably unfazed by the hostility of his current surroundings.I could not guess his age - older than my two score years, perhaps.As soon as I entered the room, his beady, black eyes followed me in an unnerving study.

Captain Monmouthshire looked annoyed, his bushy eyebrows furrowed low over his eyes.

“So?” I asked him. “What do we have here?”

“He won’t tell us his name, sir.Just says he wants to talk to you.Says that his master’s got an offer to make you.”

“Your master?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at the messenger.

The man inclined his head ever so slightly.“My master, His Majesty King Alexander of Saltar.My name is Gabriel and I have the honour of being His Majesty’s personal manservant.”

“His manservant?” I said, surprised.“You can’t mean - Alexander surely isn’t so far west as to have reached the Great Lake’s shores?”

“Indeed.”The Saltarian smiled politely.“He arrived yestermorn.His legions are currently camped less than ten miles east.”

I let that piece of information sink in.For the last nine months, we had repelled the advances of one thousand men, completely cut off from news as to how the rest of the country fared.If the Saltarian king’s legions had already arrived, it could only herald bad tidings. 

I exchanged glances with Monmouthshire.He had two young children within the castle, and I could see the fear for them in his eyes.

“I was told you have an offer for Castle Drachmead from your king,” I said, keeping my expression carefully composed as I turned back to Gabriel.“Speak the terms.”

Gabriel shook his head.“You are mistaken, General - His Majesty’s offer is to you, not to those of this castle.His Majesty bid me tell those terms to you, and to you alone, sir.”

I met the man’s glittering black eyes with a stare that had never failed to make a soldier - friend or foe - send a plea to his gods for mercy.Gabriel simply smiled thinly back at me.He appeared completely unconcerned to be surrounded by a hostile enemy. 

His complacency spoke volumes.I nodded at Monmouthshire.

“Leave us,” I said.“And take your men with you.”

Monmouthshire moved to obey the command, but paused by my side on his way out, looking worried.I had worked with the captain of the guard since arriving at the castle ten months ago and had called him a friend not long after.The man had always worn his emotions on his sleeve. 

“Are you sure, William?” he asked, low.“I don’t like it.”

I clapped him on the shoulder and turned, walking with him to the door.“I agree,” I murmured, tilting my head close to his ear, “but there is little choice in the matter.I’ll see what information he’s prepared to give me.You go inform your lord of Alexander’s armies - gods know what, but there must be something we can do to bolster the defences against increased attack.”

Monmouthshire nodded, still clearly unhappy, but left the room with an air of determination, shutting the doors behind him.Taking a deep breath, I composed my expression and turned back to the messenger.

The Saltarian was still watching me in a manner which made me deeply uneasy.

“The terms,” I said, bluntly.“What are they?”

A shadow crossed Gabriel’s face.“General William Falkirk,” he said, “Royal Swordsmaster to the now-defunct and deceased line of Killavray, you are accused of killing King Leonard of Saltar.”

“Only accused?” I asked, amiably.“I would have thought there were enough witnesses to the act.”

Gabriel’s expression flickered for a moment before he continued as if I hadn’t spoken.“His Majesty is aware that you have likely received little news of wider affairs in the Ben Nir Kingdom.He told me to inform you that you wait in vain: you will receive no assistance from outside forces.The Four Great Castles fell within six months of the invasion and the lower castles have all fallen since.Castle Drachmead is the only stronghold still standing: there is no one left to help you.”An unpleasant smile tugged at the corner of the man’s lips.“And His Majesty’s forces are now encamped on your doorstep.

I looked at the Saltarian, and could see no lie in his eyes.The Kingdom had fallen.My chest ached with a sharp, sudden sense of unfathomable loss.I turned my back on the messenger, preferring he guess at my expression rather than know the true extent of my weakness.

After a moment, Gabriel coughed quietly behind me.“General, if I may?”

Gripping my hands into fists, I steeled myself and turned back to him.The Saltarian had his messenger’s satchel in his hands, clasps already undone.On meeting my eyes, he overturned its contents.Heavy sheets of velum fell to the stone floor, the thick parchment marked with coloured dyes and scrawled writing.I knew what they were even as I felt sick with the knowledge - the seals of the Kingdom’s houses, the most treasured possessions of each of the oldest and richest families.Not one of those families would have relinquished its seal to Saltar; not unless every member was dead, or had foresworn its oath to the House of Killavray.

I looked up at Gabriel, and wondered if the man could see the hatred in my eyes.Wondered if the man had any idea of the rich and precious history that he had dumped so carelessly onto the dusty flagstones.From his expression, the Saltarian knew full well.

“His Majesty wishes you to be under no misconception of your current position, General,” Gabriel said, silkily.“But he is merciful in his greatness.His Majesty will spare this castle and the lives of those that have harboured you in return for your unconditional surrender.Those are his terms.”

The offer was unexpected for its generosity in the circumstances.With the added might of Alexander’s legions, the siege would soon break and we would be overrun.Alexander didn’t even need to waste his men in attacking: after almost a year, the castle’s food stocks were running perilously low.The war of attrition would be won in less than two months, and the castle would have no option but to negotiate terms of surrender.

Gabriel was watching me, studying me so closely it was if he was trying to look beneath my skin.And try as I might, I could not discern Alexander’s strategy.Not unless the new king was simply dissatisfied his father’s killer would meet with a sufficiently tortuous end.That I would too quietly slip away from this world - a sword in the back in the midst of a desperate final skirmish, perhaps; or a chalice of spiked wine, offering peaceful surrender to forever sleep. 

I looked down at my scarred, calloused hands, a weathered map of the pain I had both shouldered and dispensed for my country.

“And if I were to accept,” I said, “how are we to do this?I will not open the gates and endanger this castle on the word of an unknown Saltarian.”

The man reached within the pocket of his coat, bringing forth a heavy, gold signet ring.It bore the Saltarian crest.I had seen one such ring before, at the palace, a long time ago.I knew the power the wearer wielded. 

“His Majesty, in his wisdom, asked me to carry this in the hope you would agree to his proposal.While the mark of Saltar remains in the keeping of this castle, all those within it will be under the protection of the king.My master asked, in the event of your agreement, that Lord Drachmead retain this ring and you ride back with me to His Majesty’s location in return.”

“He invokes the Old Laws?” I asked, quietly.The words felt heavy and ungainly on my tongue - reflex born of hundreds of years of history shared grudgingly with our Saltarian neighbours.

Gabriel stiffened.If I hadn’t been watching his face, I would have missed the flash of anger in his eyes, stark and bitter, before his expression smoothed once more in the deft display of skill of a true courtier. 

He granted me a thin smile. 

“The offer was laid in writing before our gods, as law and tradition decrees.The Old Laws remain sacred in Saltar whatever your heathen views on the matter, _king-killer_.”

The words were spoken slowly, icily, but with no trace of falsehood.Alexander meant to honour the offer.

For the first time - shamefully - dread crawled up my throat.It was too soon.I wasn’t ready.I had yet to make my peace with the gods.But there was no logical reason for delay, and Gabriel was watching me again, his dark eyes too knowing.

“Very well,” I said, sounding more tired than I wished to.“I will need to consider your terms with the lord of this castle.”

Gabriel inclined his head.“Of course, General,” he said.“I will be here on your return.”

I turned without acknowledging his words, striding to the doors.Opening them, careful not to favour my right arm in front of the enemy, I found the group of men Monmouthshire had left guarding the corridor.

“Watch him,” I said.“I will be returning shortly.”

 

 

 

Lord Drachmead was old and fat, but his wits remained sharp in spite of his drinking habits and his loyalties were as unmoving as mountains.He stared at me through rheumy eyes, grief written sharply into each crease of his pudgy, red face.Captain Monmouthshire hovered at his side, his hand at his sword hilt.

“And you have no doubt of his words?” Drachmead asked.“The Kingdom has fallen?”

“None,” I said, without inflection.“He had the seals to prove it.”

Tears welled in the old man’s eyes but did not fall.“I wish I had not lived to see this day.”

I fought to keep my own face impassive.My grief remained a hot, tight ball lodged deep beneath my ribcage.If I allowed that roiling mass of emotion free, it would consume me.

“Alexander’s terms, my lord,” I said, quietly.“He asks for my surrender.In return, he will spare the castle.”

I watched as the two men digested my words in silence.Monmouthshire was shaking his head.

“You cannot, General,” he said, bluntly."It would be a brutal death."

I laughed without humour.“I am nothing but an ageing swordsman, my friend.I have seen life aplenty.It has worn me down and spat me out, and I am not afraid of death.I will not take your children’s future for this torn and bloody rag of a soul.”

“So you’ve already decided to hand yourself over.Like a lamb for slaughter.Yes, well, of course.”Drachmead nodded absently, reaching out a trembling hand for his goblet of wine.He drank deeply, red liquid dribbling down his chin, draining the vessel.When he returned the goblet to the table, his hand was no longer trembling.

“I am nothing but a provincial lord,” he said, slowly, “but I would fight for you.Monmouthshire, here, would fight for you.The rest of my people would fight for you.You are the great General Falkirk, defender of Killavray, the Right Hand, the gods’ sword of justice.You are what’s left of the Kingdom now, General.Without you, we are Saltar.Is it not better to die?”

I smiled at him, sadly.

“You are a good man, Drachmead, and your people love you, but I will not allow you to follow me down a fool’s path.“

“This castle would have fallen many months past if it had not been for your leadership, your knowledge of warfare.You have already bought my people’s lives thrice over.”

“I was a dead man as soon as I killed Leonard,” I said, simply.“You know that.”

Drachmead did not disagree.Picking up another bottle of wine, he generously sloshed more of the red liquid into his empty goblet.Monmouthshire rubbed a hand over his pale face, seemingly at a loss for words.

"I would intend to leave shortly," I said, "and I should not welcome any ceremony on my departure."

Drachmead considered me for a long moment, then shook his head with a sigh.“I do not feel proud in letting you go, General,” he said.“But I am a fat, old drunk, and I cannot stop you.I could throw all of my best men at you but you are William Falkirk, after all, and it would only serve to slow you down - even injured as you are.If your mind is made up, it seems there is nothing to be done.”

“Thank you, my lord,” I said, bowing to him.

“No,” Drachmead said,"it is on behalf of every soul in this castle that I must thank you, General.”The old lord raised his goblet in an ironic toast.“I wish you a quick and easy death, my friend, for I fear such wishes are all I can offer you.”

I thought of all I’d heard of Alexander, thought of all I’d known of his father, before him.For their overtures of civility, the Saltarians favoured a cruel and brutal rule of law.Their executions were legendary, scrawled into the annals of history in blood and bone dust.My death would be neither quick nor easy, and the old man knew it as well as I. 

Nodding to Drachmead, I took my leave, briefly returning to Gabriel to confirm both acceptance and the logistics of my surrender.The Saltarian and I would ride for Alexander’s legions in an hour’s time and, from that point onwards, I would no longer be a free man.For obvious reasons, perhaps, Gabriel mentioned no need to pack, and I had little personal belongings other than the clothes on my back and the sword at my side in any event. With nothing else to preoccupy my thoughts, I headed for the castle’s chapel.I did not expect the gods to offer me salvation, but I could at least ask for the strength to endure the times that lay ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

I met Gabriel at the castle’s north gate.Dressed in a fine riding cape, the Saltarian held the reins of two magnificent, bay horses.It was plain neither beast belonged to the castle’s stables - sad, sorry animals the lot of them, as underfed as the castle’s residents - so Gabriel must have arrived with one in tow.My acquiescence, it seemed, had been wholly anticipated.The knowledge did not improve my mood.

I had donned a cloak of my own - a simple, home-spun garment - but had not otherwise changed from the clothes I had put on earlier that morning.The lord had offered me luxuries from his own wardrobe for my meeting with the King of Saltar, gleaming cloths spun in gold and silver thread, but I had politely declined.I had no one to impress, after all.I had once been Royal Swordsmaster to King Killavray, but I was nothing but a common foot soldier on the death of that noble house.It was the guise I had been born in: it seemed somehow fitting to greet my death in it, too.

The sun had not quite broached the easterly mountain peaks when we set off.The terrain was not easy going, steep and narrow with loose rocks underfoot.It had been many months since I had last ridden, and it was not long before my right shoulder was a brand of fiery agony down my side, jolted with every hoofbeat.I gritted my teeth against the throbbing pain; it served as a distraction, at least, from the funeral dirge of my thoughts.

It was tortuously slow-going as we picked our way down the incline, and over an hour passed before the ground began to level out.We had not yet ridden three miles when I noticed a distant cloud of dust signalling riders on the road ahead.Within minutes, I could make out the riders’ individual silhouettes against the rocky plains: five of them, armed, and riding hard towards us.I stiffened in my saddle, casting a sideways glance at Gabriel, but the man remained as placid as ever.This too, it seemed, was expected.

With the riders almost upon us, Gabriel signalled me to stop.Favouring my right arm, I eased upwards on the reins, pressing my knees into my horse’s flanks as I coaxed her to a gentle halt.I did not look behind me, would not grant myself that wretched misery, but I knew the castle was not yet out of sight amongst the steep, rocky crags.

The strangers slowed to a stop also, their horses’ coats steaming in the cold autumn air.While the men only wore light armour, they were armed for war.Beneath their dark cloaks, they wore the crest of Saltar emblazoned across their chests, a black cross stitched over their hearts.I recognised the livery: they were of the King’s Royal Guard, the greatest and deadliest fighters in Saltar and all of its sovereign territories.

“Sire,”the front rider said, bowing low in his saddle to Gabriel.He was a bear of a man - full-bearded, with thick arms of corded muscles, a few years my junior.A Hillman, I thought, by the looks of him.The man’s eyes flickered over me in a cursory examination, glancing up, then down, before returning to Gabriel.“Fortune favours you as always, I see,” he said.“The king will be most pleased.”

“Indeed.”Gabriel allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as he repositioned his glasses.“Well met, Jackson.You have made good time.”He nodded his head in my direction.“Give our prisoner water first.He has been remarkably tame.”

Jackson raised a bushy eyebrow at that, and cast me another look.“The only tame Right Hand would be a dead one,” he said.

Urging his horse into motion, he came alongside me, unstoppering his canteen and offering it out.I took it from him with a nod, raising the canteen to my lips and swallowing a couple of mouthfuls.The water was fresh but tasted strange after drinking solely from the castle’s well for so many months.When I lowered the canteen, the tip of Jackson’s sword was at my throat.

“You will hand over your weapon, now,” he said, coolly.“Give me your sword, sheathed, by your left hand.If you make any move that I do not expect, I will knock you out and you can ride into camp hogtied to my saddle.”He smirked.“It would make a pretty picture for His Majesty, I’m sure.”

I met Jackson’s eyes.His sword did not waver.

“What do you say, Right Hand?” he asked.

Once, a long time ago, I would have enjoyed testing my skill out on this man.Now, I was outmanoeuvred, outmanned, and I still had one end of a bargain to uphold.

Slowly, left-handed, I unclipped my scabbard from my belt and held it out.For my entire life, the Kingdom had been at war with Saltar and I had spent many years killing men like these before me.It felt strange - _wrong_ \- to willingly relinquish my only weapon to the enemy, but Jackson just disarmed me with a grunt.

“Smart move,” he said, attaching my sword to his saddle bags before digging within them.As he straightened up once again, I saw he held a smooth coil of rope in his hands. 

“Same deal,” Jackson said, gruffly.“Hold out your hands, nice and easy now, or you’ll regret it.”

I obeyed, my face impassive, submitting to his endeavours without a word.My right shoulder screamed in protest as I held my arm across my body, and I bit through the inside of my cheek waiting for Jackson to finish tugging the knots tight, the warm tang of iron sharp against my tongue.Finally done, the man released me, and I brought my bound hands down in front of me, pressing my knuckles hard into the leather pommel as I bit back the rising swell of nausea. 

Jackson dismounted, pulling more rope from his saddle bags.

“Don’t kick,” he warned, and proceeded to tie my feet together, deftly looping the rope under the belly of the horse.

I watched through slitted eyes as the man coupled a leading rein to my horse’s bridle, tying the end to his own saddle.The other guardsmen took up position - two flanking me, two at my back.I flexed my hands in front of me, finding no give in the knots.The rope was wrapped thickly around my wrists and tied tight enough that my fingers were already losing sensation.Weaponless, guarded by elite killers, and here of my own volition, I couldn’t help think the measure was intended as a humiliation more than a deterrent. 

Jackson mounted up and steered his horse to join Gabriel at the head of the group, before giving the command to move out.As the lead rein pulled tight, my horse easily fell into step behind the man’s black mare, the soldiers around me keeping exact pace.It was clearly a well-practiced manoeuvre, the horses effortlessly quickening to a trot.The gait was merciless to my shoulder, and I fixed my eyes dead ahead, concentrating on pushing back the spiralling blackness at the peripheries of my vision.I was weaker than I had realised - weaker than I ever cared to be, truth be told, let alone in my current circumstances. 

The injury to my shoulder had gods-damned timing.I had picked it up three nights previously while on the battlements, repelling an enemy attempt to scale the walls.The healer had been required to cut deep into the flesh to remove the barbed crossbow bolt, and afterwards she could offer no painkillers or herbs to assist with the healing, the castle’s stocks long-since depleted.It was harder than it once had been to take such matters in stride, my body weakened by a year of severe rationing, not as quick to forgive without the vitality of youth on my side.I could already feel the damp seep of blood between my skin and shirt where the wound’s stitches were beginning to pull loose, hidden beneath the dark wool of my cloak.

The rest of the journey passed in an unpleasant haze as I struggled to maintain my grip on consciousness, keeping the reins wrapped tight around my bound hands.The rope was trapping the blood at my wrists, my fingers numb and completely useless, throbbing in count with my heartbeat.It was only by virtue of being tied to the horse that I didn’t fall; my captors sparing me that humiliation at least, however inadvertently. 

It was after an hour or so at the relentless pace that we began to pass large groups of Saltarian troops on the road, practicing drills.Riding on, we passed siege engines, hulking structures of wood and iron, scarred by war.Then tents - row after row of beige canvas, stretching out with no apparent end as our group rode on without slowing: we had reached the Saltarian base camp.

Even half out of my mind with pain, I recognised the size of Alexander’s army was staggering.I could not be surprised the Kingdom had fallen before such amassed force.Even if we had been ready for the attack, we would never have foreseen the true extent of Saltar’s strength and power.The Kingdom had been foolish - _I_ had been foolish - to so severely underestimate the threat our neighbour posed.

Jackson held up a hand and I felt the motion of the horse beneath me shift, our pace easing as we veered from the road, slowing to a gentle walk.It came as a welcome relief to my shoulder, and I did what I could to gather my faculties. The reprieve would be short-lived, I knew.I could already see a heavily guarded open space up ahead, a collection of large, gold-embellished tents at its centre, grand and imposing: we had nearly reached my intended destination.

The wall of guardsmen surrounding the area parted smoothly as we approached.The men saluted Gabriel and Jackson crisply, their eyes drifting to where I sat in my saddle, their faces hardening as we passed by.These soldiers, too, wore the uniform of the King’s Royal Guard. 

It was an act of cowardice, perhaps, but I did not meet their stares, too tired for the hatred I knew I’d find in their eyes.I could not resent them for it.I had killed the man they had dedicated their lives to protect and knew full-well how I would feel in their stead.Knew the anger that still flickered dangerously within my own breast, the remnants of the dark and ugly thing that had possessed me over a year ago, standing powerless as I watched Killavray die. 

I kept my gaze straight ahead, my own expression carefully neutral, as my guard rode on. 

The tent we approached was fine even by the standard of its neighbours, the thick canvas appearing almost solid gold in the pale autumn sunlight, surrounded by its own personal guard.With a gesture from Jackson and the rustle of tack, our group came to a final stop in front of its ornate awning.It was fit for a king’s personal quarters, I noted with some reluctance, and heavily guarded.I had been naive, I realised, to have foreseen little else than a holding cell and execution when Gabriel had first proffered the king’s terms.

Jackson and Gabriel dismounted as soldiers stepped forward to receive their mounts.While Gabriel fussed with his clothes, speaking in hushed tones to a steward that had appeared by his side, Jackson came for me.He tugged the bindings from my ankles without ceremony, then looked up.

“I’m not undoing your hands,” he said, and gestured downwards.“Come on.”

I stared at him for a moment, digesting his intent, not liking my chances of making the manoeuvre with my dignity intact.If I accidentally fell on my shoulder, I knew I would pass out. 

“My legs are stiff from the ride,” I said, playing for time.

Jackson quirked a sardonic eyebrow at me.“I’ll be here to catch you, Right Hand, never fear.”

I could not see what choice I had - unless I wished to be dragged down, of course.Mustering the tatters of my strength together, I kicked my right foot from its stirrup, leaning my good side against my horse’s neck for leverage.Then, shifting my whole weight onto my left foot, awkward without the use of my hands, I used my momentum to swing my right leg over my horse’s back.Stabbing pain radiated down my whole right side in response, my thigh muscles seizing in angry protest after so long in the saddle.The horse shifted uneasily in response beneath me.Balancing with one foot in the stirrups, I closed my eyes against a swift and dizzying vertigo, bile rising thick and sour at the back of my throat. 

Suddenly, a pair of large hands came up around me, gripping strongly under my arms, steadying me, helping me down.It was only when the pain receded, my feet blessedly on solid ground once again, that it occurred to me that Jackson had been surprisingly true to his word.I turned to find him watching me closely, studying me with an appraising air.I was not seeking pity for my injury and I met his gaze - held it - confident in the knowledge I had nothing to hide that he cared to know. 

Jackson finally looked away, suspicions satisfied it seemed, although his eyebrows were still furrowed in a mild frown.

“Come on,” he said, after only a brief hesitation, putting a firm hand at my back. 

Two servants patiently held open the heavy canvas flaps of the tent’s opening and Jackson guided me resolutely forward.I allowed him to lead me, offering no resistance although the desire to fight was still there, simmering just beneath my skin.I may have given my word, but to walk obediently towards the future I faced was still no easy thing.It was some small consolation to know with a terrible certainty that there was no escape now in any event.I was at the heart of the Saltarian legions, injured, bound, and weaponless.I no longer had any say in my destiny. 

With a steadying breath, I stepped into the gloom of the tent.The canvas flaps closed behind us, muffling the sounds of the camp outside.Thick rugs carpeted the floor beneath my feet and the walls were hung in rich silks of blue and gold.More silks hung from the canopy to partition a sleeping area, the outline of a bed just discernible behind it.There was a solid-looking table and chairs for dining, finely crafted in dark, glossy wood, along with two, cushion-strewn ottomans in the far corner.Gabriel already stood in the centre of the room, his head respectfully bowed and his hands clasped behind him as he spoke in soft, quick words, delivering his missives. 

The king was listening intently, sat in a high-backed receiving chair that commanded the full attention of the room.He was tall and powerfully-built, like his father had been before him.His thick, blond hair was cut short for battle and he had a hard but handsome face, his strong, stubborn jaw covered by a close-cropped beard.Garbed simply in a cream shirt and leather trousers, a broadsword strapped to his side and a gold signet ring his only mark of state, I did not doubt the power of the man.He looked, I thought, like the fabled warrior kings of old, as formidable as they were ruthless.

Alexander’s eyes slid over to us, and he nodded at Gabriel, who immediately fell silent.He raised a hand, signalling us to approach, and Jackson pressed me forward.We stopped at the centre of the tent and I turned to face the King of Saltar, flanked by Jackson and Gabriel at either shoulder, my expression carefully composed.Alexander was watching me, his regard cold and steady and dangerous.If I had been a lesser man, I knew I could not have weathered such relentless study.I met his eyes unflinchingly, unwilling to be cowed. 

I had heard the man inspired devotion and hatred in equal measure, and I could well believe it, looking at him.Despite his relative youth, Alexander was reportedly both a fearsome fighter and keen strategist.It had been a long time since the Kingdom’s spies had had any meaningful foothold in the Saltarian battle room, but it was general consensus that it had been the hand of this man - not that of his father - that had guided Saltar in their land-grabbing to the north, in their successful campaigns against the coastal islands, in the state’s ever-increasing wealth and prosperity.

“You will kneel,” Alexander said to me.

I suspected it was this man that had also engineered the fall of the Kingdom, decisively ending a stalemate that had lasted for countless generations.I despised him for it.Grudgingly, I respected him for it too.

I inclined my head.“Your Majesty will forgive me, but you are not my king.”

One corner of Alexander’s mouth curled upwards in a small, dangerous smile.“Do you not intend to beg for my mercy, swordsmaster?”

I laughed without humour.“I would not presume to waste your indulgences on a fool’s exercise, Your Majesty.”

“And yet you have granted me your unconditional surrender,” the king said.

“Yes, Your Majesty.But unconditional obedience is a different thing.”

“Very well,” Alexander said, and Jackson kicked me in the back of my knee, my leg buckling sharply beneath me as his fingers dug into my left shoulder, pushing me firmly down to the floor.Jackson did not release his grip and I knelt mutely before the king, resisting the urge to break the guardsman’s wrist. 

“You are a hard man to lay hands upon, General,” Alexander mused, aloud.“I had expected to find you within the walls of one of the Great Castles, but the walls of those castles fell and you were not there.It was only when I received reports that the fat sot at Castle Drachmead was somehow repelling wave after wave of attacks that I knew I had found you.”Alexander was still looking at me, his eyes dark, his expression cold.“If you wished to escape me, swordsmaster, you should have never stopped running.”

I did not disagree with him.My duty - as it always had been - was to the Kingdom.

Gabriel coughed quietly.“Your Majesty,” he said, hesitantly, “a trial will be expected.Your barons will wish the opportunity to petition you for the manner of the king-killer’s death.”

I watched as Alexander’s fingers gripped into white-knuckled fists on the arms of his chair.

“They dare think to have a say in this?” he asked.

I felt Gabriel shift uncomfortably behind me. 

“The barons know your word to be law and none would dare gainsay you,” he said, carefully.“But it is customary, sire, and they are men who deeply loved your father.”

Alexander did not look pleased as he silently contemplated Gabriel’s words.I shifted my weight uncomfortably from one knee to the other, the muscles in my thighs tired and aching from my ride in the saddle.The movement inadvertently snagged the king’s attention once again.Exhausted and hurting in too many places, I yielded, looking away from his scrutiny, suffocated by it.

“Noon tomorrow,” Alexander said, finally.“But I will wait no longer.”

“Of course, sire,” Gabriel said.“We will be ready."

“As for our guest, here,” the king said, “shackle him hand and foot and hold him amongst the Royal Guards’ quarters.No food or water.He can use the hours to consider the full weight of his current situation.” 

I looked up at him and Alexander graced me with a dangerous smile. 

“Perhaps in the morning he may feel more inclined to beg.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys. This took much longer than I intended. Combination of real life craziness and my brain just shutting down and refusing to play ball whenever I did stumble across any free time.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the new chapter. :)

It was deep into the night and the camp had long fallen quiet, the tents shrouded in the silver and shadow of moonlight.I sat on the outskirts of the guard’s campfire, iron heavy at wrists and ankles, the chains staked deep into the ground at my feet.I had been granted sufficient slack to reach the bucket an arm’s span away from me but not to stand or fully stretch out my legs.Across from me, a man sat with his hand on his sword hilt, his back to the warmth of the dying fire, expression impassive as he kept careful watch of my every movement.

The night was bitterly cold and I had been sat in the same position for hours.It was not an advisable time of year to be out in the elements; this far west, where the chill, northerly wind whistled through the crags of the ranges, blowing fiercely across the plains and carrying with it the taste of snow.I was already shivering violently, my hands and feet numb, and it was still many hours until sun-up.Wrapping the coarse blanket more tightly around me, I sent silent thanks to the gods that I had not had sufficient pride to refuse Jackson when he had handed it to me several hours ago.It was only a small mercy - and smelled distinctly of horse - but I was grateful to the man.I doubted it had been the king’s intention, although it was true he had not specified I go without.

My right shoulder burned in stark contrast to the frigid night air, a throbbing ache that resonated deep to the bone.My shirt was stuck unpleasantly to my back, the material tugging against my flesh in sharp, nauseating shocks every time I shifted, but at least it might mean the seep of blood from the reopened wound had finally stopped.In different circumstances, I would have worried about infection, knowing full well the insidious nature of poison spreading through the blood.But not here, not now.There was little point dwelling on such matters when Alexander would have my head first.

It was becoming disconcertingly easy to ignore the pain in any event.I was tired, so very tired.Hunger was an old acquaintance of mine and the rumbling emptiness of my stomach did not plague me.Thirst, however, was a different matter, and my tongue rasped against the roof of my mouth as I swallowed thickly, my throat dry as sand.I had learnt to withstand deprivation in my life as a soldier, and I had not forgotten those hard lessons in the intervening years.It made or broke a man - those long, brutal hours of marching, sleeping while standing, with nothing but meat jerky, stagnant water and sheer bloody-mindedness to keep going.Try as I might, however, I could not recall a time I had ever felt as exhausted as I did now. 

The day had not been an easy one.Tomorrow, I knew, would be worse.

Shutting my eyes, I allowed myself to finally succumb to the unknowing bliss of unconsciousness.

 

 

 

I came to much too slowly, a hard grip on my shoulder shaking me forcefully awake.The movement sent dizzying stabs of pain through my whole body and I blinked several times, my brain fogged and stupid as the full light of day seared into my gritty eyes.It was only as adrenaline began to creep through my veins that some of the haze cleared and I was able to orientate myself; to realise where I was, and to remember exactly what that meant. 

It was four of the Royal Guard that had come to rouse me.Looking up, squinting against the brightness of the sky, I saw I did not recognise any of the shadowed faces staring down at me.It was something to be grateful for, at least: Jackson would have only asked questions. 

One of the soldiers knelt to release the chains, leaving my hands shackled.“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” the man muttered, under his breath, as he hauled me upwards, wrenching my right shoulder mercilessly.The pain rendered me mute, my gorge rising, unable to offer a response even if I had wished to. 

Struggling to keep my feet under me, I tried not to stagger against him as he manhandled me forward into the midsts of his companions.With little choice in the matter, I was swiftly corralled out of the guard’s camp, two men walking ahead of me, two behind, the soldiers at my back urging me relentlessly forwards whenever I slowed.Dizzy and half out of my mind with pain, I could do nothing but stumble on, concentrating with sole, grim determination on the task of picking up my feet. 

Time began to move in strange, galloping jolts, and I only realised we had arrived when one of the men put a hand on my shoulder, stopping my forward momentum.Fighting for composure, I wavered on my feet as the noise of a gathered crowd filtered through to my awareness; a constant, buzzing thrum that set my teeth on edge.Looking up, I found Alexander staring down at me from less than a dozen steps away.The king was sat on a throne raised upon a dais, dressed in state robes of dark royal blue, a plain band of gold on his head.I found it difficult to look away from the dark anger in the man’s eyes.He wore power like a fine yet terrible cloak, draped heavily over the breadth of his wide shoulders, framing the hard line of his jaw.And while his thick forearms rested nonchalantly on the throne’s arms, I saw that his hands were clenched into tight fists in his lap.

It took less effort to have me kneeling than it had the day before, the ground cold and muddy beneath my knees but mercifully soft.I barely acknowledged the hard grip on my shoulder, slumping back onto my heels as the world spun sickeningly about me.My blood felt like it was burning through my veins, scorching my bones dry as my shoulder throbbed in vicious time to my heartbeat.Blackness began to encroach on my vision, reality becoming dim and fuzzy as unconsciousness beckoned.Gritting my teeth against it, I pushed back with slow and relentless resolve, steadying myself. 

 _Not much longer. You can withstand this._  

I was playing out the final act of the Kingdom’s noble history, I knew.That legacy would not end with its most famous swordsman swooning in front of the Saltarian king.Slowly, determinedly, I gathered my ailing senses together and opened my eyes. 

The camp’s freemen and regular soldiers had gathered en masse to watch proceedings, I saw.They surrounded the area in a wide ring, kept at a reasonable distance by a heavily armed picket of the Royal Guard.Kneeling on the ground, I could not see much past the first few rows of men, but there must have been hundreds of them, perhaps thousands.I had not expected such numbers from the noise.I was no expert in Saltarian ways, but the crowd seemed strangely subdued in victory, waiting for the climatic, bloody end to years of warfare, their faces tense, expectant. 

The low hum of conversation behind me was a stark contrast, wholly distinct to the sound of the common crowd: cultured voices thick with vicious excitement.I did not bother wasting what little energy I had left turning around, in no doubt of the owners’ identities.Gabriel had said the Saltarian barons would be here and I had never underestimated their lust for my blood.The border barons in particular had good reason to hate me.

Movement directly ahead caught my attention. Jackson had materialised from the ranks of Royal Guard clustered behind the throne, and I watched as he approached through slitted eyes.On reaching me, he looked down, studying me for a long, telling moment.I endured the scrutiny as best I could, grappling to keep my expression clear. 

Evidently, my efforts were not enough: the man dropped to a crouch at my side. 

“There’s something wrong,” he hissed, strangely fierce.“ _Tell me._ ”

The whole area suddenly fell silent as Gabriel walked to stand at one side of the dais, a scroll in his hand.The manservant unravelled the parchment as he bowed low to Alexander, clearing his throat as he righted himself to address the king.

“Your Majesty, King Alexander of Saltar and her sovereign territories, King Regent to the Realm of Daskar, and Lord Commander of the Island Nations, ” he began, his diction precise and loud enough to carry to the ranks of the gathered crowd, “before you today kneels a most reviled enemy of our country, the man known as William Falkirk, once General of the Ben Nir Kingdom and Royal Swordsmaster to Killavray.”

I focused on Gabriel as he spoke, gladly taking the opportunity to ignore Jackson’s hulking presence beside me, his searching look.After a grudging moment, the captain gave up and rose to his feet - aware, it seemed, that he had lost the chance to pry an answer from me in all the pomp and ceremony.He remained by my side, standing guard closely over me.

“The accused’s crimes are heinous and numerous in nature,” Gabriel was saying.“He has broken the Old Laws in ways most foul, acted knowingly in direct contravention of those ancient rites that bind us.He confesses himself to being king-killer, the murderer of Your Majesty’s great father, the noble King Leonard of Saltar.Further, he has slaughtered thousands of Saltarian fathers and sons, killing by his own hand and also by his command.In his role as foremost counsel to King Killavray, he led that gods-damned royal house to dangerous and unprecedented success.He has, with the gods as witness, dedicated his deprived life to weakening the sovereign rule of Saltar.” 

I did not see Gabriel once refer to the scroll in his hands.I wondered whether he had composed the speech on our ride back from Drachmead.

“These are only the current charges laid at the accused’s feet, Your Majesty.William Falkirk has previously been judged in absentia by your noble late father on historic charges levelled by Your Majesty’s barons.”Gabriel paused, finally glancing down at the scroll.“And has been found guilty on 427 various counts of robbery, murder, theft, and affray.Punishment for those crimes, righteously sentenced under Saltarian law, has never been served.”

It was an impressive count.Falsified and exaggerated in places almost certainly, but I doubted I could deny the majority in good faith.War was rarely kind and I would be a fool to think my hands were clean after a lifetime in its acquaintance.Saltar had always been the enemy, after all.

Around me, the assembled crowds had fallen eerily silent, waiting, expectant. 

Alexander nodded.“Thank you, Counsellor.I think we can dispense with further oral submission on this occasion.I see little reason for dragging this farce out longer than required.” 

The king’s dark eyes did not leave my face and I boldly met his gaze, schooling my expression blank as I thought only of the Kingdom. 

“Before the gods,” Alexander said, the words slow and deliberate and terrible, “I find William Falkirk guilty on all counts.He will be subject to royal justice accordingly.”

There was a rush of noise from the surrounding common folk, and several boisterous cheers broke out behind me.Kneeling in the cold mud, my shoulder aflare with agony, I couldn’t bring myself to care.The judgment was not unexpected, after all.

Gabriel waited for the commotion to subside a little before bowing again.“Sire,” he said, loudly, his renewed address causing the crowd to quieten further.“If it pleases you, in foresight of your wisdom, several of your barons have submitted suits in the hope it may assist Your Majesty’s deliberation on sentencing.”

Alexander arched an eyebrow, his expression dangerously impassive.“Is that so?” he asked, after a long pause.Even in my current state, I took a measure of enjoyment in watching Gabriel flinch at the softly-spoken question.“Very well, I will hear them now.”

Gabriel quickly returned to his scroll.

“Eighteen of your barons would prevail upon you to see the king-killer hung, drawn and quartered, sire.Five suggest crucifixion and that number again are seeking his death by flaying.Three wish to see the accused roasted alive and two ask that he be staked out and left to rot.There is also,” Gabriel hesitated, frowning down at the parchment, “a single request for beheading.”

The old king had had a penchant for live burial, I remembered, the thought filtering through my pain-fuddled mind even as I fought to keep an air of detachment.I tried not to consider what Alexander’s own bloody predilections might be.Dead was dead, after all: whatever the nature of my final moments on this earth, soon I would be able to rest.

Silence fell as the king slowly rose to his feet.Stood upon the dias, he towered over the hushed scene.He was a noble, almost godly figure, the shining gold of the Saltarian crown nestled in the darker gold of his hair, his deep blue robes gracefully draped across his broad shoulders. 

“I have long searched for this man,” he said into the silence, his voice deep and strong.He gestured dismissively to me, expression scornful.“The mighty General Falkirk, legendary swordsman, scourge of all Saltar.For too long, his unfettered existence has plagued me.And yet here I have him, on his knees in the mud before you all, defeated.” 

The thud of my heartbeat echoed through my aching skull, my mouth dry as bone.Something small and hot burned in angry denial beneath my breastbone, but I did not outwardly react to the king’s words.Around us, the only sounds were the sigh of the wind and the flapping of the Saltarian pennants above, the occasional dull clink of armour against armour.The crowd was transfixed, completely in thrall to the charismatic power of their young king.

“For his unprovoked malicious attacks on the baronetcies alone,” Alexander continued, “I would be well justified in sentencing him to death.His war crimes warrant the most excruciating and torturous end permissible under Saltarian law.But such matters,” he said, slowly, “pale in contrast to his murder of King Leonard.Such a deed, in breach of the Old Laws, deserves a fate worse than death.”He paused, turning his dark regard back to me.“I have therefore decided not to grant the prisoner an executioner’s reprieve.”

I frowned, not understanding his meaning, pain and exhaustion rendering me stupid.My mind was full of shifting shadows, every thought fragmenting under too much attention, scattering just out of reach.About me, the surrounding crowd seethed and swelled with excited whispers. 

“The Ben Nir Kingdom no longer exists,” Alexander said, his attention still wholly focused on me, enunciating the words with casual brutality.“I have shown its one-time citizens great mercy by allowing them to become vassals of Saltar.Killavray is long dead, along with those that dared stand against me.You are entirely alone in this world, swordsmaster, and you will find I have no kindness left.”

His expression was forbidding, the look of a predator, a hawk contemplating a mouse with cold, yellow eyes.

“William Falkirk, I hereby strip you of all individual rights.You are from this moment forth a slave and no longer recognised as a legal person under Saltarian law.I claim you as chattel for the Crown, as is my sovereign right.”He smiled grimly, and I felt the beating rush of a hawk’s wings in my ears.“Maybe, over the next score of years or so, I’ll be satisfied you’ve borne sufficient punishment to atone for your crimes.”

I stared at him in horror. _No_ , I thought, stupidly. _No_.

I had resigned myself to death.It was a fate, however painful and messy, that I could understand - a soldier’s fate, one that I could bear with at least the semblance of dignity.But the King of Saltar would deprive me of even that.

Despair constricted my lungs, tightening my chest, slowly suffocating me. I opened my mouth to say something, to protest, even as black spots danced across my vision. I wanted to get my feet under me, to move, to get as far as possible from the Saltarian king, maybe - or perhaps to put my fist into the man’s self-satisfied face. White noise was rushing in my ears and I swayed, sickeningly.For a fraction of a moment, the world was falling, upside down becoming the right way up.Then there was nothing but blackness.

 

 

 

 

I was killing the dead king again, stabbing my sword deep into his ample gut, my hands sticky and warm with blood, gore, even though it had not happened like that in real life. 

Leonard disappeared and the faces of other men I had killed crowded about me: Saltarian soldiers, young, old, the border barons’ men, the proud army recruits I had trained up before waving on to the afterlife.I was drowning in blood, choking on it.And the entire time Alexander was just staring at me, his handsome face grim, his eyes dark and ruthless.

There was a woman there, too, shifting in and out of the jagged, ugly blackness.She had grey hair, her face wizened with age.Her blue eyes twinkled unnaturally as she stood in front of me.Something about her was achingly familiar, but my mind was a warm and comfortable blank and I could not remember. 

The old woman shook her head, her glittering eyes wet like oceans.Her expression was desperately sad as she took my face between her soft, wrinkled hands and gently cupped my cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, over and over again.“I’m so sorry.But not yet, my darling.Not yet.”

I didn’t understand her words but, as she held me in her arms, I felt warmer, safer, than I had in a long time.I shut my eyes, losing myself to oblivion.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been seriously busy with full-time career plus part-time education so this story has been on the back-burner for a while. Thank you all for bearing with me, along with the lovely comments and kudos. :)

Consciousness crept achingly into place even as the fog of my dreams still lingered, warm and comforting.I became slowly aware of a dull, gnawing soreness down my right-side that I couldn’t easily ignore, a bone-deep exhaustion.My mouth was dry as sand, my tongue thick and swollen-feeling, and there was a rancid bitterness at the back of my throat. 

I was lying on something soft and comfortable.My body was warm, swaddled in blankets, although the air on my face was chill in contrast, like a nearby window had been left open.My right shoulder had been bound; I could feel the tight press of bandages around my bicep as I tensed, although even that slight movement felt an effort. 

I knew the fatigue in my muscles meant I had been out for no small period of time.I wondered what I had done to myself on this occasion.Wondered if Killavray would be mad - like that time I’d been bed-bound for two and a half moons following an unusually eventful jaunt across the border.The king had been intolerable, sulking the entire length of my recuperation while lecturing me constantly on _unnecessary risks_.When I had finally recovered, he had retaliated in earnest by restricting my movements to the capital for an entire year. 

But no - that had been many years ago now, when I was still young and foolishly idealistic, too restless for my own good.My brain was a muddled haze, a strange sense of vertigo making my head spin.Opening eyes that were dry and gritty with sleep, I squinted against the dim, flickering light until the shifting shadows above me coalesced into a tent canopy.I stared up at the canvas, confused for one long moment - two - then _remembered_. 

Killavray.The siege.Alexander. 

_Slave._

The horror of it, the immensity, caught in my throat, cinching tight around my heart.I groaned, a quiet, wretched sound of loss. 

“So,” a low voice said, close to my side and chillingly familiar, “it seems you are awake.”

I went very, very still. 

I had not sensed Alexander in the shadows of the tent, had not heard him, although I thought I could probably forgive myself that in the circumstances.I had no way of knowing how long the king had been there, watching over me in the gloom.I certainly couldn’t fathom his reasons for it.If it weren’t for the grounding ache of my body, the clamminess of my fingers as I unconsciously gripped the blankets, I might have thought I was still walking in dreams.

The king said nothing more.In the thick, heavy silence, it slowly dawned on me he was expecting an answer. 

“Your Majesty,” I rasped, as well as I could manage - nothing but a small, dry croak.

There was movement to my right side, a shift in the shadows in my peripheral vision, and the king stood up, the tent suddenly feeling suffocatingly small.He was dressed in the more casual garb I had seen on our first meeting, no crown adorning his head.His face remained in shadow as he took the three steps to my bedside and I resisted the urge to shrink back as he reached towards me, my stomach clenching tightly - _fight or flight_ \- as his hand passed through the air above me.The man leant forward, across the bed, merely bringing up a leather pitcher from a table on the other side.

The light of the bedside lantern threw flickering shadows into his eye sockets, masking the king’s expression.He stood silently over me for a long moment, just looking down, an eyeless spectre.The light glinted in the gold of his beard, played across the tight, angry slant of his mouth.Then he put his free hand against my pillow, sliding it under my head before I could think to flinch away. 

His touch was icy through the hot sweaty tangle of my hair.Careful.I stared up at him mutely as he propped my head up, bringing the rim of the pitcher to my lips, not understanding.The man did not strike me the type to play nursemaid.

“Drink,” he said, and tilted the jug.

The first touch of cold water on my fever-cracked lips felt like new life.I opened my mouth, greedy despite the powerful fingers cradling the back of my skullI, desperate to slake my thirst.I drank slowly, unwilling to make myself sick, savouring every small swallow of the precious liquid.The water had a bitter aftertaste, infused with herbs I didn’t recognise, but it did not make me stop.Finally, Alexander pulled the pitcher away, carefully lowering my head back to the pillow. 

He did not choose to step back from my bedside once he’d disposed of the jug.He stood close - too close - towering over my prostrate form.Pinned beneath his gaze, I felt disconcertingly vulnerable: lying there weaponless, tired and weak from injury, my mental defences pitifully scattered.

Then Alexander spoke. 

“I tell you this now because I did not have the opportunity to do so before your deception was known.” 

His voice was dangerously low. 

“If you die of your own making - whether by your own hand or through want of due care - I will search out and find every last Ben’nirin, every last man, woman and child.I will find them and I will kill them.” 

The king held my gaze, his expression pitiless.I didn’t move, could barely breathe, my heartbeat a dull echoing throb in my ears.

“And I swear on my father’s grave,” Alexander continued, unrelenting, hard and unbending as steel, “before they die I will have brought such unimaginable pain upon them that even your banished gods will hear their cries for mercy.Do you understand?”

I stared up at him, unseeing for a moment as my vision hazed, the lantern-light blurring into a meaningless, shivering darkness.I had thought the chains that bound me couldn’t pull any tighter, but I had been wrong.The depth of the man’s obsession was terrifying.To threaten massacre of hundreds of thousands of people, merely to string out the fate of one ageing, kinless swordsman —

Leonard’s death at my hand did not make it conscionable, nor even entirely sane.I could not fathom the fury of emotion that drove the king.I swallowed convulsively, tasting bile.

“You will answer me,” Alexander growled, his eyes fixed on me, alive with a dark, burning violence.” _Do you understand._ ”

I looked away from him then, unable to bear the scrutiny any longer.My stomach roiled nauseously.I was achingly tired and had no strength left to fight a fight I had no chance of winning.All I wanted in that moment - desperately, more than anything - was to be left alone.

“Yes,” I said, quietly, dully,“I understand.”

The words tasted like defeat on my tongue, but my acquiescence appeared to quell the king’s rising anger.When he finally spoke again, his voice was calmer. 

“You will sleep now.When you wake, you will obey the surgeon’s commands and take whatever medicine he gives you.That is all you need trouble yourself with for the time-being.”

I offered no response.My still-healing body ached but the despair gathering in a sickly solid mass in my chest hurt more.I shut my eyes and did not see Alexander leave, although I heard the heavy canvas of the tent door swish close behind him.I did not believe I would sleep - _could_ sleep - but a fog of unfeeling lethargy soon enshrouded me, dulling my pain and miring my thoughts. 

With the water’s bitter taste still lingering on my tongue, my eyes slowly drifted shut.

 

 

 

When I next awoke, the tent was brighter and my head felt clearer, the drugs’ effects faded to nothing but a dull haziness.It was daylight outside, the sounds of the Saltarian camp filtering through the tent’s canvas, distant and muffled, with the occasionalshock of noise coming from close by - a soldier’s shout, the whinny and stamp of a horse. 

I had awoken alone in the tent this time.Warmly cocooned in blankets and furs, my breath clouded before my face, hanging thin and ephemeral in the cold winter air.With the luxury of solitude, I lay still, taking stock of myself: my right shoulder was a sore snarl of pain, but showed definite improvement to the injury I had succumbed to; my limbs remained intolerably weak and rubbery, my mouth bone dry once more. 

My surroundings were clearer in the light of day.The tent I was in was small but neat, golden cream in colour, the sun outside shining bright against the canopy above.My bed was surprisingly good-quality furniture for an army on the move - the table at my bedside equally sturdy, strewn with bandages and jars and several pitchers.The high-backed chair where the king had sat the night before stood empty against the tent wall, no longer hidden in shadow. 

I wondered how long it had been since the trial.Wondered if the Saltarian legions remained camped in the lee of the Western Mountains, or if we had moved while I remained dead to the world. 

The tent’s door-flap opened without warning and a man I had not seen before shouldered in, the sunlight outside briefly etching out a squat, broad-shouldered silhouette before the canvas swung close behind him.The stranger was bald but had dark, heavy eyebrows.He was dressed in leather overalls, his thick forearms bare despite the chill in the air. 

He grunted when he saw me watching him.

“His Majesty said you’d awoken in the night,” the man said, his voice rough and broadly accented, born of the Saltarian south.“Isaiah’s the name, army surgeon.I’m’s the one with the misfortune of being saddled with the care of your sorry arse.”He scowled, his impressive eyebrows furrowing as he considered me.“Thirsty?”

I nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“That’ll be the galarium.Miracle herb it is too, but brings on the thirst like nothing else.Here.”

He rounded the side of my bed and reached for one of the pitchers on the bedside table.As he turned to me, pitcher in hand, I squared my jaw, turning my head away from him.I was not willing to so easily surrender my wits and consciousness this time around, happy to sacrifice my thirst a while longer to retain my faculties. 

Isaiah paused above me, appraising the scope of my rebellion.He appeared distinctly unimpressed.

“Now we’ll have none of that,” he said, with stoic gruffness.“I’ve strict orders to report any bad behaviour to the king and I’m sure we’d both rather avoid that sort of unpleasantness.I’d imagine HIs Majesty can be mighty persuasive when he puts his mind to it.”He grunted again and gave me a knowing look.“This here’s only water, anyway, case you were wondering.”

I felt like a naughty child being threatened with his father’s belt strap by the nursemaid.And while it may have been an absurd situation, I could not deny the effectiveness of the threat.The truth was that I was thirsty and exhausted and in no shape to fight.Unless I wished to have Alexander hand-hold me through my convalescence, I had little choice but to obey Isaiah, trust him or not.If he wished to keep me drugged to the gills, I was in no state to disagree with him after all.I would need to choose my battles carefully if I were to survive this. 

Offering no further resistance, I allowed the surgeon to prop my head up and help me drink.The water was clean and cold and soothing - unspiked, true to the man’s word.

Having returned the pitcher to the table, Isaiah leant over me and pulled back the heavy blankets guarding my right shoulder.I shivered as the frigid air kissed my bare skin, the hairs on my arm quickly rising with gooseflesh.The man studied my bandages with an appraising, no-nonsense air, gently pressing against the healing wound with thick, blunt fingers.I winced.

“Gonna need to change that on the morrow,” he remarked, pulling his hands away and tucking the blankets back up to my chin.“We’ll have to get the brazier going again in this gods-blasted weather.Don’t want you catching cold and undoing all of my good work.”

“How long was I out?” I asked.

“I should say close to three weeks, all told.” 

I swallowed, surprised at the length of time despite myself.Desperate thoughts crowded my brain: _Had the king remained true to his word?Had Drachmead burned while I was unconscious?_

The surgeon was looking at me, his expression scrutinising and a little odd.

“What?” I asked, my tone sharper than I had intended, threaded through with my own dark worries.

Isaiah was silent for a long moment and I wasn’t sure he would answer.Then the man cleared his throat.

“I’m an excellent surgeon,” he said, slowly, “one of His Majesty’s best, if I do say so myself.But I don’t rightly know how you live, Ben’nirin.Your wound had festered, your blood black with poison.You shouldn’t have survived a day past your collapse - let alone be talking to me now, like a man coming from the grips of naught but a summer fever.”

I grunted, uneasy with the subject.“I feel like a sack of shit if it helps.”

Isaiah shrugged, dismissing my words with ease.“I have seen much of death, including a tide of your kinsfolk’s this past year.And never have I seen the likes of your recovery, Right Hand.”He smiled grimly at me.“Maybe I should put more faith in the stories of your immortality, eh?”

I would have preferred a different fate, I thought, and did not realise I’d voiced the words aloud until I saw Isaiah give me a look.The man’s expression was wary but not unkind, something not unlike pity in his eyes. 

“King-killer or no,” he muttered, “I reckon I can understand that.”

The bald surgeon plied me with more galarium before he left, gruffly telling me it was a necessary aid to my recovery, his voice firm, his expression unrelenting.I didn’t make him voice the threat of Alexander again, although it remained unspoken in the air between us; merely opened my lips and swallowed the liquid he fed me.

I lay still after Isaiah had left, my hands gripped into useless fists at my sides, hidden beneath the furs.I kept my jaw set, my lips pressed tightly together, waiting for the drug to creep through my blood and rob me of sense once more.Before drugging me, on my asking, the surgeon had confirmed the camp had not moved since the day of the trial; had told me that the castle remained safe under the king’s protection.

It was not long before my world turned fuzzy and indistinct, a familiar, dislikable sensation.I fought grimly back against the choking grip of sleep but I knew it was a fight I could not win. 

The blackness embraced me like an old friend, all-consuming, smothering my awareness.I slept.

 

 

 

I was barely conscious in the days that followed, waking from drugged lethargy to Isaiah’s gruff words and sure, steady hands.Sometimes the rim of a pitcher would already be pressed to my lips when I woke, more of the bitter liquid trickling down my throat before I understood enough to offer even token resistance.Sometimes it was a warm broth first, the taste smooth and buttery on my tongue, but the dose of galarium always followed.

It must have been at least a week later when I awoke properly, my stomach rumbling with emptiness, my mind finally my own again.It was daylight outside and I felt stronger. 

Shifting in bed, I noticed something weighing warm and heavy about one ankle, cinching tight around my skin.I didn’t need to pull back the covers to know I had been chained while I slept.It seemed an optimistic precaution, all things considered.

A warm smell drew my eyes to the table next to me.A bowl of thin stew was waiting, still gently steaming, a cup stood next to it.Gingerly, I used my left forearm to prop myself up against the pillows, my right shoulder sharply protesting at the movement.The effort made my head spin but, after waiting a moment, I was able to reach for the bowl, the air outside the covers icy cold on my bare skin.

There was no spoon but I needed none; settling back into the pillows, I brought the rim of the bowl to my mouth to drink.My hold was a little shaky but I persevered, the lukewarm stew a rich, meaty flavour on my starved palate.The food was simple fare but it bolstered my reserves, made me feel almost human once more.I returned the bowl to the bedside table once it was empty, then picked up the cup, sniffing its contents suspiciously.Detecting only a faint freshness, I dipped one finger into the liquid and tasted it: water flavoured with a sharp sweetness, the taste reminiscent of hard autumn apples.There was no telltale hint of bitterness so I drank my fill, placing the cup back on the table when done.

With hunger and thirst both sated, I turned my attention to my right shoulder.The wound was neatly wrapped in clean, white dressing, the bandages layered across my pectoral and around my back, wound snugly over my bicep and beneath my armpit.Curiously, I put my fingers against the flesh of my shoulder, pressing lightly against the bandages covering the centre of the ache.The injury still hurt but it was healing - slowly but surely.Grimacing, I dropped my hand and brought the blankets back up around my bare chest, shivering a little. 

Some while passed before I heard the crunch of approaching footsteps and the hushed tones of a private conversation between two men.They stopped directly outside the tent and a voice that was unmistakably Alexander’s dismissed someone.Then the canvas door flap was opening and the king stepped inside.

In the cold light of day, dressed in full riding gear, the man was an intimidating presence in the close confines of the tent, broad and powerfully built, a sword and dagger hanging prominently from his waist.I was grateful that he did not choose to come closer like he had before, the night I had first awoken.

Alexander’s expression was cold and disinterested as he surveyed me.

“I am told you are fit enough to travel,” he said.“I had intended to bring you back to Saltar with me but that is not possible while you are unable to ride.Jackson and a contingent of his men will instead escort you by wagon to the border.” 

There was anger in his voice and I sensed the king was deeply displeased by the disruption to his plans.For my part, I would not be sad to part ways with him.By wagon, the journey to the Saltarian border would take two-score days, if not longer: I was grateful for the unlooked-for reprieve.

Alexander narrowed his eyes, as if reading my thoughts. 

“I dare say it is for the best,” he said, with candour.“The surgeon tells me you should be hale and hearty on your arrival in Lyra.And you will require your strength in those first days, while you adapt to your new role.”

I swallowed, thickly.I did not know exactly what life as a king-killing royal slave entailed in the Saltarian court, but I could hazard a good guess it would not be pleasant.It was not something I relished experiencing firsthand.

“Remember, slave,” Alexander said, slowly, calculatingly, and I could not help but wince at his use of the title, even knowing his eyes were on my face, watching me.“Remember what I said will happen if you die.There will be no chance for you to escape before your arrival in Lyra, but if I hear you have been at all disobedient on the journey, if you hinder your guard in any way, your punishment will come out of your hide.Do you understand?”

He waited, looking at me, one eyebrow raised, expectantly.

I was a fish caught in a net knotted thrice at the neck - I could thrash as much as I wished, but there was no escaping fate.“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said, softly.

The king nodded, seemingly satisfied, and exited the tent without giving me a backwards glance. 

It was cowardly, perhaps, but as I waited for the rush of adrenaline to leave my body, wrung out and tired, all I could do was hope I would not see the other man again for a long while.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left such wonderful comments on the last chapter - you guys are so kind and it really does inspire me. I'm sorry I've been away for so long. Getting time to write is hard but I still very much have this story on the brain.
> 
> I've made some edits to the last chapters - grammar and neatening up mainly (the perils of not having a beta), with a minor bit of world-building sprinkled in. Nothing requiring a re-read that I'm aware of.
> 
> Cerridwen also gifted me some amazing art for this story! :) :) [[here]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8300885)

Jackson’s smile was tempered when I saw him next, his greeting overly formal. 

I was in the back of a wagon, chained and sat on a pallet stuffed with blankets and furs, having been deposited there by an armed guard some minutes before.Outside, men called to each other amidst the jangle of tack and the thud and roll of barrels being loaded, the stamp and whinny of horses.Standing before me, the captain had to hunch awkwardly over, his broad shoulders resting flat against the waxed canvas roof.He looked more drawn than he had on the morning of the trial, a little haggard around the edges, his expression closed.I bore his lingering scrutiny with discomfort even as the silence between us grew and festered.

I suspected the man thought I had intentionally played him - attempting to take my own life by neglecting my injury, hiding my slow slide into death.I could not rightly blame him.Seen now in the bright, unforgiving light of Alexander’s sentencing decree, it would have been a final, lasting victory over the king, the Right Hand’s coup d’etat.The truth, admittedly, did my legend much less favour.I had been acting in blind folly, not understanding the nature of the beast that prowled the king’s mind.

“I have His Majesty’s orders,” Jackson said, jolting me from my reverie.“You’ll remain confined to this wagon for the entirety of the journey.Isaiah will ride with you until he judges you fit enough.At such time, I’m able to lengthen the chain and the pallet can be cleared for any modest exercise you feel up to.You’ll receive food and fresh water three times a day.The covered bucket’s for your needs - it’ll be collected twice daily.Any questions?”

I looked around what would be my prison for the next month and a half.The wagon was dim and cramped, the canvas well-proofed against the bitter wind raging outside.Barrels formed an impenetrable wall at my back, stacked to the ceiling and lashed tightly together with rope - filled with supplies for the journey, perhaps, but serving well enough to keep me in and any curious eyes out.The driver’s bench was separated off by a thick blanket tied to the awning.From that wall of wool to where I sat, there was less than two feet of bare wooden floor, a small table with a pewter basin, a padded stool, the promised bucket. 

While it would be no easy task remaining in such small confines for the duration, I did not wish to dwell on what my desperate if well-meaning kinsfolk might do if they discovered me still alive within the borders of the Kingdom.I thought grimly of Lord Drachmead’s determined bravery, of Monmouthshire’s bristling indignity, and shook my head at Jackson: I had no questions.It was only good sense keeping me out of sight on this particular journey. 

The captain offered no gesture or words of acknowledgment, just looked me up and down in silence.His eyes caught on my shoulder - lingered a moment too long - then returned to my face. 

“I think it’s important that me and you understand each other,” he said, carefully.“His Majesty would be most displeased if I’m unable to deliver you to the palace.And you should know that I have every intention of keeping my king happy.” 

Isaiah had told me Gabriel had been sent back to the capital ahead of the king’s riding party, thoroughly out of royal favour for now, banished from Alexander’s sight for failing to notice his prisoner’s declining state of health.I didn’t know what punishment the captain might have suffered for his own ignorance, but I doubted he had escaped the king’s wrath wholly unscathed.

There was a sharp, raven-like intelligence behind Jackson’s dark eyes.“I won’t underestimate you, Right Hand,” he said, softly.“I know full well the stories that follow you.But I warn you now: if you seek to test me on this journey, if you choose to force my hand, I will use whatever means necessary to bring you to heel.Do you understand me?”

I found myself sorely regretting the loss of his open, easy manner.In such small quarters, it was difficult not to be reminded of the threat in Jackson’s large hands and scarred knuckles, the wickedly curved sword hung at his waist, the danger inherent in his very bearing.This was a man who could kill as simple as thought, I knew.

“Yes,” I said.

Jackson eyed me shrewdly, weighing me up.“Good.” 

Turning to leave, he pushed back the blanket with one hand, and paused.

“This journey will be a misery for us all,” he said, his voice low, as if he were talking to himself.He didn’t turn to look at me.“Remember that when the walls close in.”Then he clambered out onto the driver’s bench and was gone, the blanket swinging back into place behind him. 

Staring blankly after him, I found myself hoping the man and I weren’t already enemies.If we had met under different circumstances, I thought I could have called him friend.

 

 

 

Our company reached Lyra in thirty-eight days.It was a remarkable feat, the men and horses pushing hard through long days and into the night, well-trained and disciplined; our speed aided by dry weather and war-deserted roads.I saw none of it, sequestered away in dim lamplight and shadow, growing slowly impervious to the rocking sway of the wagon, the occasional bone-jerking jolt of a wheel hitting a loose rock.I hadn’t even learnt we’d left the Kingdom’s mountain passes - had crossed the border into Saltar - until three days after the event, when the party was forced to stop so the River Manse could be forded.

Our entry into Lyra was marked by the subtle stench of open sewers and the hubbub of too many people in want of the same space, the capital city unmistakeable even through the wagon’s waxed canvas.My face set with grim determination, I remained focused on my strength exercises, sweat damp at the back of my neck.I had learnt in the early days of the journey not to dwell on the future and concentrated instead on the thump of my heart in my chest, the prickle of sweat beading on my brow, the warm rush of my breath, slow and steady, in, out.

With my daily self-flagellation finally complete, I sat down heavily on the stool, gratified to feel only the slightest tremor in my limbs.It was a vast improvement to when I’d first begun, just over three weeks ago now.My strength was returning, slowly but surely.I began methodically stretching out the muscles in my back and arms, my neck, my legs, and focused on my breathing: _in for six counts, one, two, three, out for six_.It was a warmly familiar method of clearing my mind, a meditation technique learnt long ago in the safety of the training mess; eleven years old and trying hard not to fall asleep.

I listened to the life of the city pass by outside as if from afar, breathing and waiting, not thinking at all.

Night had properly fallen, the lamplight shining brighter in the wagon’s darker gloom, when there was a sudden shout of greeting from the front of the company; a distant bellow in answer.From somewhere up ahead came the grind of well-oiled metal against metal, loud and unabating. 

I had seen the outside perimeter of the Royal Palace on several ill-advised occasions in my youth, could readily picture the towering white walls, heavily fortified and thick as a man lying across; the gleaming black of the portcullis drawn across the main gate, a dark, gaping maw.The grinding metal sound stopped and there was another shout.We rode forward and on, the horses’ hooves crunching through gravel.I imagined the shadow of the gate passing overhead.

It was some while before we came to a halt, heralded by the heavy creak of doors opening and the patter of hushed footsteps.There was a short discussion outside the wagon, then the wool blanket was dragged back and away and Jackson was framed against the night sky, his face lit by flickering torchlight. 

“There’s always a hard and easy way of doing these things, Right Hand,” he said.I hadn’t seen the man in over a month, but he spoke easily, as though we were simply continuing a conversation.“That chain around your ankle’s long enough to reach the ground.”He raised a bushy eyebrow at me, laden with meaning.“I’m sure my boys’d be more than happy to help if you’ll find coming down difficult on your lonesome, though.” 

Any hesitation I felt in obeying him was fleeting at most: I yearned to be free of the wagon’s musty confines and had no desire to earn a beating through sheer bloodymindedness.Easing myself out of the wagon’s depths, up onto the driver’s bench alongside Jackson, I breathed in deeply, glorying in the cold rush of fresh air against my face.Then the captain’s hand was on my shoulder, urging me down from the wagon, into the arms of the closely-knit group of guards waiting on the ground. 

I had been delivered into an inner courtyard.Even as I sought to better my bearings, the chain was removed from my ankle and new cuffs were adeptly shackled about my wrists.The palace loomed above us on all sides, chiselled from the same bleached bone as the outside walls, torchlight dancing across many hundreds of windowpanes, flickering, glossy and black.It was a different sort of architecture to any we had in the Kingdom; grandiose and awesome, a truly intimidating display of wealth. 

Jackson’s hand found my shoulder once more, his grip firm and unyielding.Ahead of us stood an open set of double doors, flanked on both sides by armed guards wearing breastplates of burnished gold.A thin, sallow-skinned man stood on the threshold waiting to receive us, dressed head to toe in black velvet.The captain pressed me forward, two guards falling into step behind us.

“Ho, Jeremiah,” he called, loudly, “you old bag of bones, did you miss me?”

The man’s lips pinched with clear disdain.

“Captain,” he said, thinly, ignoring the question, “His Majesty asks you see the slave to his quarters and then report to him in his study.A storeroom in the cellars has been converted for the slave’s use.My man will show you.”

The Head Steward, I surmised, and couldn’t help a sudden swell of memory: Old Matilda’s warm smile, the jolly good-humour with which she ran Renwall with a fist of iron, clucking and fussing at Killavray like a matron charged with an unruly child.I had no way of knowing if she’d survived Saltar’s invasion and pushed the thoughts down, away - now was not the time to dwell on such matters.

Jackson didn’t dally on receipt of his king’s orders and I was led swiftly through corridors of ivory and gold, then down two flights of stairs, the stones of the walls about us becoming darker in colour, more roughly chiselled, the air growing colder.Jeremiah’s man took the lead, a torch held aloft in one hand as he led us into the lower belly of the palace.I followed willingly enough, keeping a weather eye on my surroundings, counting each twist and turn, safe in the knowledge that Alexander had no immediate want to see me.

We finally stopped in front of an old but solid-looking wooden door.The window grille and lower hatch were clearly new additions, and its heavy lock and hinges gleamed with the sheen of freshly smithed metal.Jeremiah’s man stepped forward with a set of keys, unlocking the door and swinging it open with a heave of effort.He handed the keys to Jackson with a short bow, his eyes momentarily finding my face - wide and staring as he met my gaze for the space of a heartbeat - before hurriedly taking his leave. 

Jackson ushered me forward.The small space nestled between the cell’s thick walls was sparsely furnished: another low-lying pallet, a clothes chest, a jug and basin, another bucket.It was at once drearily familiar and chokingly claustrophobic, the chill air tasting of must and damp, pressing close about us.Alexander had sought out the dankest corner of the palace to hide me in, that much was clear, but I took some comfort knowing my quarters had to be housed far from the royal wing.I did my best to ignore the pair of manacles hanging ostentatiously from one wall, their metal glinting coldly in the torchlight.

“Thank you,” Jackson said, behind me, “for the uneventful journey.”

I turned to face him.From someone else, there might have been hidden insult in the words.

“Was there honour in it?” I asked, curious despite myself.

While the Hill Folk paid homage to the Saltarian gods now, their culture had long ago followed a simpler path: that of honour to the family, honour to the tribe.Few foreigners knew the Path of the Righteous was still adhered to by the Ruling Council, guiding their rulings and local laws, shaping their trade relationships, their worship of the gods.

The man considered me closely, his head tilted to one side.If he was surprised by my question, he hid it well.

“I feel there is honour in much of what you do, Right Hand,” he said, finally. 

There was a solemn weight in his words that I chose to ignore.The uneventfulness of the journey was to the man’s own credit: I had been offered no opportunity for escape. 

I bid him farewell and watched as the door clanged shut behind him, pitching the room into darkness.I had been granted no torch or lantern, the only light coming from the corridor outside, flickering torchlight lapping at the grille of the door.Sighing, I sat on the pallet and toed off my boots, then lay down awkwardly, my hands still chained in front of me. 

There was nothing to do but sleep, but it was a long time before my eyes finally slipped close.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remain overwhelmed and so grateful for the support you guys continue to show this author and her horrific update schedule.
> 
> I was struggling to get excited about writing the next installment and concluded the end of my last chapter was the problem. I couldn't see any getting around it so, for the first time in the years I've been posting fic, I simply deleted a chunk of posted content. Chapter 5 is therefore now shorter and the very beginning of this chapter incorporates a couple of paragraphs from what was culled before entering brand new territory. 
> 
> I'm really sorry for my rubbish-ness / any confusion caused. I acknowledge there are definite drawbacks to maintaining a loose plot line in my head without anyone to soundboard ideas off. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy. :)

I was taken to the bathhouse the following morning; stripped down and scrubbed mercilessly by two sour-faced women.Road dust and old sweat was sluiced from my body with warm water, the soap rinsed from my hair black with grime.Despite their brusque ministrations, I revelled in the sensation of being clean again - truly clean, as I hadn’t been since before the siege at Drachmead.I clutched the unlooked-for pleasure close to my chest, surprised at the comfort it brought me.

Naked as the day I was born, I was pushed onto a bench.My hair was wrung out and combed through, then tied in a damp knot back from my face.A man in overalls stepped forward with a cutthroat razor, and I was held in place by my guard as he went about methodically stripping my throat and face of bristles.I endured the treatment with my jaw clenched, wondering how many years had past since I had last been clean-shaven.When he was done, I was handed a pair of cotton trousers and a shirt to don, the material soft but thin, ill-suited for outside wear.No replacements were forthcoming for my old, travel-worn boots and I stood bare foot in the moisture-thick air of the bathhouse feeling oddly exposed, the skin of my jaw tingling.

I was returned to my cell without ceremony, clean and mainly dry.No one arrived with breakfast.Left to myself, there was nothing to do in the perpetual gloom but stew in my own thoughts, and I found I was almost grateful when more guards eventually arrived.My hands were cuffed in front of me while heavy manacles were placed about my ankles, a chain strung between them, hobbling me.Ushered out of the room, I was awkwardly frogmarched up four staircases and through a multitude of corridors, the frigid grey flagstones beneath my feet changing to shining marble then to a polished, deep-veined wood.The servants we passed scurried quickly on by, their eyes averted, busying themselves with their allotted tasks. 

My silent entourage finally stopped outside a wooden door carved with twisting foliage.The lead guard stepped forward to knock.

“Come.”

The door was pushed open and I was pressed forward, into the room.Wide sash windows let in the morning sun, brightly illuminating the modestly-sized study.A cheerful fire crackled in the grate of a large fireplace, mahogany bookcases stretching to ceiling-height along the walls either side, a large, impressively-detailed map of the Known Lands covering the wall space between.Both cosy-looking armchairs in front of the fire were unoccupied, the room’s sole resident sat at the desk by one of the windows, his back to the door, pen scratching against parchment.

The guards didn’t wait for direction, but manhandled me expertly forward.The solid metal ring in the floor was as newly installed as my cell, and I wondered at that even as I was forced down, the shackles about my hands undone simply to be threaded through the ring and refastened, securing me there, unable to rise to my feet.

“Your Majesty,” the head guard said.The company bowed smartly to the king’s back and left, closing the door softly behind them, leaving me alone with the man.

Alexander didn’t acknowledge me, just dipped his pen in an ink pot and continued to write.A tray with the remains of breakfast sat quietly to one side and my stomach grumbled at the sight, used to the rough if regular meals on the wagon.Looking around, it struck me the room had no particular trappings of grandeur, no outward sign of any royal purpose.The quiet, unassuming study could only be part of the king’s personal quarters - a far cry from the official chambers of state I had expected. 

I looked down at the newly installed ring once again, confused but troubled.

The scratch of the pen had stopped.Looking back up, I found Alexander had turned in his chair and was watching me, a strange expression on his face.

“You look vulnerable stripped of your grizzled veteran mask, swordsmaster,” he said, after a moment.“Do you feel vulnerable, I wonder?”

It was not a topic of conversation I wished to explore with the man. 

“I have many reasons to feel vulnerable, Your Majesty,” I said.

Alexander inclined his head in acknowledgment.“You look stronger than when we parted.”

“I am, Your Majesty.”

“Are you fully recovered?”

I hesitated, not entirely sure what answer the man was looking for.Alexander’s face was coldly appraising and I settled on the truth Killavray would have expected to receive.

“I remain easy to tire, Your Majesty,” I said.The air remained heavy with expectation and I sighed.“My shoulder plagues me in the cold sometimes, but it improves.”

Alexander considered me in silence for a long moment.

“I have already spoken to Isaiah,” he said.“He told me you were sleeping too little.”

The words caught me off-balance, surprised.I looked at the king warily, then slowly nodded. 

“Isaiah is right,” I said.My chains clinked softly as I shifted on the hard floor.“But that is not a new condition, Your Majesty.”

Alexander studied me, his golden hair limned in sunlight from the window behind.I shifted again beneath the stifling weight of his attention, awkward, my knees creaking in complaint.My answer hung in the air between us, small and insignificant beneath Alexander’s inspection.I could not read the king’s hard expression, could not discern what thoughts lay behind his narrowed eyes.

“Your care will pass to the palace physician,” he said, finally.“You will pay him the same respect and cooperation that Isaiah tells me you granted him, do you understand?”

I nodded mutely - an easy enough compliance.I had little cause to get on the wrong side of a man whose administrations I suspected I would have regular need of.

Alexander caught my eyes with his own and graced me with a thin smile.“You were sensible not to lie to me,” he said.“If I do not have the truth from your lips then I will not hesitate to sew them shut.”

There was no response to such casually spoken violence and I looked away, swallowing.Listening as Alexander turned back to his writing, I sat there, quiet and unmoving, my hands clammy with sweat in my lap.Alexander didn’t acknowledge me again, his pen scritching calmly across parchment - a steady, unwavering refrain.

It must have been three hours later when the guards finally arrived to remove me, my bladder uncomfortably full, my legs long-since dead beneath me.

 

 

 

I wasn’t fed or watered on my return to my cell.Nor did I receive anything when I heard the guard change outside my door.Nor when his relief shift arrived. 

I lay awake in the dark, my stomach grumbling, mouth bone-dry, thinking of Alexander solicitously asking after my sleep only hours before.

 

 

 

No food or water was forthcoming the next day, either.I sat on the pallet in the gloom of the cell, doing my best to ignore the dry rasp of my tongue against my mouth, the sandpaper feel of my throat.With little else to preoccupy myself, it was not an easy task.

Getting up, shivering in the frigid air, I walked to the cell door, the flagstones like ice beneath my bare feet.Putting my mouth to the grille, I tried the guard.

“Can I have some water?”

“No,” came the grumbling reply.“Now shut up.”

I judged there was little to be gained in continuing the conversation.Some hours later, I tried his replacement.

“It’d be against orders, Right Hand.”

The man sounded honest - almost apologetic - and I shuffled back to my pallet in defeat.Lying down, I wrapped myself as best I could in the thin wool blanket I’d been granted and shut my eyes. 

I thought of the welcoming warmth of a bath on the return to Renwall after a long journey; of the heat of the fire at my back and Kilavray’s friendship at my side, splitting a roast joint, succulent with juices, wine fuelling our ever-more raucous conversation; of a cool flask of water pulled fresh from a spring on a hot day in the forest, laughing as the new recruits play fought, one falling into the water with a holler. 

I drifted, uncaring of physical wants, lost in memory of happier times.

 

 

 

I did not know how much time had past when I was next deposited, shackled, on a polished wooden floor.The journey through the palace had not been pleasant, the world spinning, my legs weak beneath me.Gathering myself, I looked around, squinting against the indistinct rainbows haloing my vision, my head thick and clouded.It was the same study as before, but draped in the shadows of night.Heavy curtains were pulled across the large windows and the desk stood dark and deserted, the room lit by candlelight and the fire crackling in the grate. 

Lounging in one of the armchairs, Alexander was staring into the fire, the flickering light playing across the hard, handsome lines of his face.On a small table on his far side sat a tray with a jug, a goblet, a plate of food.Clamping down grimly on the weak hope rising in my stomach, I forced myself to look away, willing the thought of thirst and hunger from my mind.The king was no fool, I knew - and I had only my soul to barter.

Without turning to look at me, Alexander reached for the jug, pouring a clear stream of water into the goblet.Taking it in one hand, he gestured to the floor at his side with the other. 

“Here,” he said.

I licked my dry lips and wished I was chained to the floor once again.With the siren’s call of water just feet away, I braced myself, struggling clumsily to my feet, but stopped when Alexander said, “I did not tell you to get up, slave.”

I sunk slowly back to the floor, confused, before I realised his intention: that I should crawl to his side, like a dog on its belly.I flushed hot, humiliated and uncertain of what to do, desperate thirst warring with the sorry vestiges of my pride.

“Come _here_ ,” Alexander said again, his voice dangerously soft.

The decision would soon not be mine to make, I knew.

Ashamed and angry at my weakness, I went to the man on hands and knees, my chains dragging loudly across the floor.I stopped when I reached the space he had indicated, not a handspan from his right foot, blessedly thick rug beneath my cold, bruised knees.Despite my best intentions, I could not look away from the water in his hand.I licked my dry lips again.

Leaning forward, Alexander didn’t allow me to take the goblet but held it to my mouth, his other hand cupping the back of my head, leaving me to drink as deeply as I could.I didn’t object.The liquid was cool and wet on my parched tongue, my throat, and I could not help gulping with abandon, greedy and unable to stop.Once I had drained the first cup, and then a second, Alexander poured me another.With the edge off my thirst, my wits returned to me and I drank more slowly, self-conscious under the king’s gaze, uncomfortably aware of his proximity.

When I was finished, Alexander placed the goblet back on the tray, picked up a thick slice of bread from the plate and tore off a corner.He held it out, in front of my mouth, waiting. 

I looked at him, then down at the offered morsel.I knew what he wanted and my gut clenched with anger.

“You already have me on my knees, Saltarian,” I gritted out.“I will not act your lap dog too.”

Alexander stiffened.His hand dropped.Without a word, he carefully placed the bread back on the plate and, with slow deliberateness, dusted off his hands.I was too close to evade him when he moved - reaching out, quick as a snake, grabbing a fistful of my hair and jerking me viciously forwards.Off balance and cuffed, I presented little fight, unable to lever myself away while leaving my scalp intact.Alexander dragged my face close to his, his fingers twisting tighter into my hair, and I swore under my breath, wincing in pain.

“Be careful, slave,” he snarled, his breath hot on my cheek.“I was already considering collaring you.I could choose to leash and muzzle you, then drag you on your hands and knees about the palace too.”

His eyes were terrible.He shook me - once, twice - his breathing heavy with anger, then shoved me violently back to the floor.

I stayed there, unspeaking, sufficiently cowed by the threat.In silence, Alexander picked up the piece of bread once again and my heart sunk in my chest.

“This will go one of two ways,” he said, slowly.“You can be fed now, or I can beat you and give you the same choice tomorrow.And the following day.And the following.For as long as it takes.”

He held the bread out towards me.I looked at it unhappily, my stomach twisting - hunger or mortification, I couldn’t tell.This was a battle I would inevitably lose, and the king knew it.If I chose to take the beatings in sheer bloody-mindedness, to starve myself until I broke, the sum result would merely be the loss of my newly regained strength.

With heavy reluctance, I shifted back to my knees, my shackles clacking.Hesitantly, I leant forward and took the piece of bread in my mouth, my face hot, eyes downcast.It was crusty and fresh and tasted like ash on my tongue.

There was no one to witness my shame as the king continued to hand feed me - small bites of bread, soft goat’s cheese, celery, sliced apple - piece by piece until the plate was clear.It was a tortuously slow exercise and I could not bring myself to look up at Alexander throughout.I wondered what the Kingdom would think of me now: their great General Falkirk, brought so obediently to the enemy’s heel.

“Good boy,” Alexander said finally, soft and mocking, as he wiped his fingers on a napkin.

I gripped my hands into fists, fingernails biting into my palms, and didn’t respond.I was in no mood to bring down upon myself the beating I had just avoided.

The silence stretched between us.A log popped loudly in the grate, the fire dying down, in need of stoking.I could feel Alexander’s eyes on me, the skin across my shoulder blades prickling in discomfort.I wished the guards would arrive, wanting nothing more but to return to the cold boredom of my cell, to get safely away from Alexander’s scrutiny.

“Look at me,” he said; and, tiredly, I obeyed.

The younger man was casually dressed, his collar open, his cravat undone.Lounging back, he sat relaxed, his large frame comfortably filling the leather chair.His eyes were dark and hooded, watching me closely.

“Before you murdered my father,” he said, “I had held quite the interest in your career.The Ben’nirin’s golden general.The commoner with unrivalled sword-skill who had saved Killavray as a child.I read the debriefs of my father’s armies’ defeats at your hand, studied your strategic plays.I found I could admire your work even as I recognised the threat you presented on Killavray’s side.”

He laughed without humour, harsh and bitter.The sound of it hooked sharply beneath my breastbone. 

“Then you stuck your sword through my father’s gut.”

I had not acted without provocation in killing Leonard, but Alexander knew that.He would have played a hand in the planning of Killavray’s death, even if he had left the foul deed itself to his father.Balanced on the knife-edge of the king’s temper, I remained silent, weathering his stare as best I could - the safest course through the storm. 

But Alexander would not leave me be, like a dog worrying at a bone.

“Tell me, slave,” he said, low and dangerous, “do you yet regret your actions?”

Dread settled coldly in my stomach.I thought back to that fateful night - to the pain I had felt, the raging, all-consuming hate.I had bathed in blood that day, two kings dead, the Old Laws torn asunder.I did not know how the gods judged me for my crimes, but I knew the truth even if I didn’t want to speak it.

The king would not like my answer.

“I cannot, Your Majesty,” I said, stiffly.

I watched as the king tensed, his fingers gripping white-knuckled around the arms of the chair, his face pale and completely still.He breathed in heavily.Tension crawled across my skin and I braced myself, wondering if he might strike me.

“Guard,” Alexander called out, curtly.The door behind me opened and he gestured wordlessly to me, his expression stony.

Four soldiers entered the study, their boots ringing heavily on the wooden floor.With impressive speed, I was dragged up off the floor in a rattle of chains, two sets of hands gripping tight beneath my arms, preventing me from stumbling.

“I think I will enjoy changing your mind,” Alexander said to me, in parting.And I shivered at the dark promise in his eyes as the guards hauled me roughly away.


End file.
